


tell me that i’ll never be enough

by sheriffofclowntown



Series: free expression via copyrighted characters [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Neil Hargrove, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Kinda, Whump, also some serious help y’know?, honestly I believe he should burn for his crimes but that’s just me, woah check it out it’s another vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheriffofclowntown/pseuds/sheriffofclowntown
Summary: Family arguments never turned out great for Billy.
Series: free expression via copyrighted characters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442680
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	tell me that i’ll never be enough

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my father for inspiration for this chapter! Everything feels more authentic when it stems from home :) !!
> 
> TW: we do be angry doe haha 
> 
> Seriously though: abuse, self harm, self destructive tendencies. 
> 
> Y’all know your limits better than I do. Read at your own risk.

Billy could tell it was going to be a bad day from the moment he woke up. It hung in the air, settled heavily in his gut. It made him want to curl up into a ball and huddle under his covers.

Hiding would only be worse, though, so he hauled himself out of bed and set himself about doing his morning routine. 

Bathroom first; splash some cold water on his face to rouse himself fully, check himself over in the mirror for any new or worsened injuries. The cut over his cheekbone was healing well, but he smeared some antibiotic ointment over it anyways. The bruises over his ribs and on his arms were almost gone. He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer. Billy wasn’t religious, but that didn’t stop him from silently pleading _just let me get through the day_. 

He left the bathroom light on, not wanting to risk the glow of the bedside lamp, even though the bedroom door was closed. He didn’t know what could set his father off, didn’t want to push the boundaries.

Billy’s stomach growled insistently. He had been confined to his room without supper last night, and had spent yesterday’s lunch cash on a pack of cigs. _Stupid_. He should’ve prepared for the possibility, shouldn’t have skipped out on lunch, should’ve just bummed the cigarettes from Tommy instead. But now, going out to the kitchen would be about as safe as wandering into minefield. _If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough_. 

He could hear Maxine’s faint snores through the thin walls as he made the bed. Tried not allow himself to give in to that roiling feeling of loathing in his stomach. 

Bed made, Billy began sweeping the floor. By now, the grey sky has lightened into something passable as dawn. Soon that hag of a stepmother would be waking up, bustling off to her job and the man she was cheating on his father with. Billy didn’t say anything to her about it. Sooner or later, she’d figure out just how bad Neil’s temper could get. 

There was no laundry to do, so Billy returned to the small bathroom, closing the door behind him. The pipes were too old and noisy for him to take a shower this early without disturbing Neil, so he turned to his biggest secret instead. 

Beside the toilet was a step stool, leaned against the wall. Nestled in the shadow was a single book borrowed from the library. 

It was some sad shit about a sled dog; the exact type of literature Neil would beat him for reading. But his father was unaware of the book (which had been properly rented from the library), as well as the other two he had lifted while the librarian had been distracted with his check out.

Billy curled up in the small space on the floor of the bathroom, chewing on his lip as he read about a dog with a strong spirit that never stayed down. He could admire that. 

The only difference was that even a damn dog knew when to lie low for a little while. Billy, well, he was just too damn hot headed for that. Dangle the prospect of a fight in front of him and he’d pursue it tirelessly. Just another thing to hate about himself. 

Eventually, footsteps began to pass along the hall, into the kitchen. A car engine roared to life and slowly faded into the distance a while later. 

Billy cautiously left the kitchen and began to make himself breakfast. Two eggs were left in the carton, about a glass of milk that was two days from going sour, and wilted-looking peppers. He sighed and set about making the omelette. One for him, one for Max. Because, of course, if he didn’t serve her every whim, she’d make a big fuss about it, and as soon as she was out of sight, his dad would discipline Billy. 

And, of course, Maxine proceeded to make as much noise as possible as she got ready for the school day. She stomped into the kitchen moodily, pulling the chair back with a loud scraping noise against the floor. Listlessly, she plopped down in the chair and began devouring the eggs without so much as a glance in his direction. 

Billy ate slowly, scooping the omelette onto his toast before taking a bite. “Can you possibly make any more noise?” 

Maxine shot him a dirty look before downing her cup of water and dumping the dishes into the sink with a clatter. “We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome for the food, Princess.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Ungrateful brat.” 

She was already in the passenger seat when Billy got out there, arms crossed and glaring out the windshield as she slouched. 

“You’re gonna be on time tonight, right?” He prompted her, throwing the car into gear. 

“Yep.”

“And if you’re late?” Billy pressed.

“I won’t be late,” she reassured him with as much snark as she could muster. 

Of course she was fucking late. Billy felt like punching something. Instead, he settled for slamming the Camaro door. Bitch could skate home. 

He peeled out of the parking lot and headed for the dilapidated shack he had no choice but to call home. 

Neil, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen when Billy walked inside. With nothing to impede him, he stumbled through the motions of washing the dishes and starting a load of laundry before tumbling into bed. 

He was woken roughly by being dragged out of bed by his ankles. His ribs protested as he landed harshly on the floor. Neil looked over him, reeking of alcohol and looking pissed as hell. 

“Maxine says she had to skate home today,” Neil slurred, moving so that his work boot rested over Billy’s hand. It took him a few tries, clearly inebriated, but Billy didn’t dare move it. “What dumb whore were you shacking up with today that was more important than your sister?” 

_She’s not my sister_ , Billy wanted to say. He wanted to hear himself say _you’re a piece of shit just like granddad, bet you didn’t like it when he beat you, dickhead_ , say _is it even worth the effort of doing this today_.

What came out of his mouth was far milder than anything he truly wanted to say. “She was late. I needed to get home and do the chores.” His voice barely shook. His hands trembled violently. 

“Hawkins has a lot of woods,” Neil said. He shifted his weight over Billy’s hand, and he ground his teeth to keep from calling out. “Don’t you care if she goes missing?” 

_No_ , he wanted to say, but even that wasn’t true. Sure, he and Maxine mixed about as well as oil and water, but he didn’t want her to get hurt. If he wanted her to get hurt, he wouldn’t’ve come home at all. He would have skipped town and been back in California months ago. But here he was, taking the fall for her ungrateful ass. Again. 

“ _ANSWER ME!_ ” Neil screamed, and he flinched into the floor. 

“Of course I don’t want her to get hurt.”

“Then why don’t you fucking _ACT LIKE IT!_ ” The volume, coupled with the rude awakening, was working to gift Billy with a migraine. He’d be lucky if that was the worst he got out of the night. 

He snapped something back. Never could back down from a fight. 

The boot ground into his hand before he was lifted and shoved into a wall. Billy knew better to defend himself. Instead, he hung there limply, letting the darkness rush closer towards him with every blow from fist and foot. 

Billy woke up some time later with a splitting headache and renewed pains down his side and chest. He limped over to the bathroom, collapsed on the closed toilet lid, and fished the firsts aid kit out from underneath the sink. 

He wanted to punch something. He wanted to rage. Mindlessly, he raised his fist and brought it down against his thigh. It added to the list of dull aches that littered his body. He struck himself again, and again, until his hand hurt more than his leg and his breathing came too fast. 

Billy allowed himself to sob soundlessly, curled over himself, to a count of 120. Each breath stabbed a sharp pain through his ribs. Slowly, he sat up straighter and began to go through the familiar motions of patching himself up. He felt so hollow, so close to the edge of uncaring that would allow him to drift into sleep. 

He dressed the new abrasions and cuts, considered the bottle of ibuprofen nestled in the kit. It didn’t have much effect on him anymore; he was used to the throb of injuries, resistant to the drug. It didn’t do anything to ease the ache in his heart, but sometimes he pretended it did, and that made him feel better for a while.

He uncapped the bottle and shook out a handful. How many? 10, 15? More? Not enough to cause a trip to the hospital, not enough to kill, but enough to fill the void in him. He tried to stifle a hysterical giggle. He had a hole in his heart that was as small as 15 tiny pills. With the other hand, he filled a mouthwash cup with water from the sink, swallowing the meds alongside it. Maybe some day he would get his hands on something stronger, something that could take away more pain for a little longer. 

Tired, in more ways than one, he closed the first aid kit and put it away before stumbling to his bed, collapsing in it. He stared at the ceiling, dark enough to make out images in the shadows. He imagined the face of someone who cared about him. Would care for him. 

Billy let himself fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Do I like Billy’s character based strictly off of canon? No. 
> 
> Do I occupy my idle time thinking of ways I can paint him in a redeeming light because I have a soft spot for shitty, abused characters? Yes.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for being mean in this one; thanks for sticking it out. I do plan to write some more Billy stuff because, like I said, soft spot.


End file.
